A/N: Back with another one. Thank you for showing this love, kittens.

When the world wants into your bed what chance do you have of anyone believing the truth of your words when you speak? They believed they knew you. Knew you better than you know yourself, knows what's best for you and when you should have what's best for you. Living a life under a microscope, we all do it from time to time even when we feel that no one is watching or that no one cares. Someone out there is waiting for you to make one bold move to either prove them right, or to shock them into silence, because they earnestly didn't see it coming. Those moments were hard to fabricate but no one should live the same day twice.

The day I was living began with a mandatory session with my therapist.

"It happened again," I confessed.

"The nosebleeds?"

I nodded solemnly.

"What do you think triggered it?"

I squeezed my hands and thighs together, stared at the blonde haired, green-eyed woman across from me. Apart from our breathing it was deathly silent in the room.

Dr. Camille O'Connell. She was easy to talk to, easy to look at, easy to be around. I've been coming to her for the last year and some change. On this gloomy Thursday morning, she was my stenographer and confessor, my best friend, and voice of reason. That's what I paid her to be anyways.

Two cups of steaming chamomile tea sat untouched on the glass coffee table between us. She waited patiently for me to answer. Long legs crossed, tablet perched on her knee, stylus in her hand. Camille knew most of my sordid business, but she didn't know everything. Today I figured I'd be upfront and honest about the easiest thing for me to spill.

"What do you think triggered your nosebleed, Bonnie?"

I hunched a shoulder. "It could have been from sheer embarrassment," I quipped. "I tripped getting on the elevator at my apartment and landed face first in this guy's crotch," my lips twitched.

Camille had no reaction beside the slight raise of her brows. I waited to see if she might jot it down, but she didn't. "What happened afterwards?"

"You mean…did I invite him back to my place?"

Camille kept quiet. She wasn't the kind of person to put words in your mouth. She wanted you to speak plain. So I did.

"Nothing happened. He helped me to my feet, tried to check out my nose, but I told him I was fine. I felt fine," I reassured. "But…I can't stop thinking about him."

"Why?"

"He's sexy." Though his features were vague because another seven days passed since our last encounter, there were parts of him I remembered with perfect clarity. The shape of his jaw, how long his lashes were, his arched brows, and those blue eyes.

"His physical appearance, you found it a temptation?"

I did smile then—well I smirked. "Absolutely."

"What had your day been like before the incident with the guy?" Camille veered slightly off the subject of my neighbor so I wouldn't dwell on his sexiness.

I had to think back to last week. "I had production meetings, a crisis that needed to be resolved, and I was running late for a dinner with potential investors. I was trying to juggle too many balls at once."

"Did you take ten minutes to destress like I advised you to?"

"I didn't."

Camille shifted on her seat. "It's important that you have 'me time' breaks throughout your day to decompress and get perspective."

"I know."

"Then make it a point to do at least one thing for yourself for ten minutes every three hours," she ordered. "I think you should also schedule an appointment with your physician about your nosebleed."

I swallowed a groan. "Cami," as she liked being called, "I've been to five specialists since I was seventeen, and they haven't been able to find anything. No cancer, no rupture, defect, nothing. I'm not wasting my time or the copay."

She held up her hands in surrender but I figured she'd broach this topic again at our next session. "Let's go back to your accident with the guy in the elevator…What did you do when you made it home?"

My eyes dipped to her chest to gauge if it was rising higher or faster. Her porcelain face remained unblemished, not a hint of a blush to be found. She was absolutely in professional mode.

Unlike my last therapist.

Shaking off that particular rancid thought, I cleared my throat and looked around the office. Neutral colors, degrees stacked on the walls, strange looking figurines were displayed on the built-in shelves adjacent to her teakwood desk. I've been meaning to ask Camille about them. The air had a pleasant smell.

I met her eyes, "I had Skype sex with my fiancé."

She made a note then. "Were you thinking only of your fiancé?"

"Yes," I scratched behind my ear.

"How are things with you and Tyler?"

"Not well."

Last night I had another fight with my fiancé. Tyler Lockwood, the man I agreed to marry, a man I've known since we were kids. Our similar temperaments were finding it hard to locate equal ground. With our birthdays being five days apart, I believed we were tailored from the same cloth. Sometimes things were just a myth. It's difficult trying to plan a wedding when your future spouse is working in Germany for the next six months, your families are in Virginia, and you're living in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. But I was determined to make it work. However, he was determined to piss me off.

I said I wanted this. The career, husband, family before I hit thirty, and so far I had one and a half things checked off at the age of twenty-eight. I had the career. It was securing the other things that were starting to cause problems.

"You've tried keeping the lines of communication open with him while he's overseas, and not just for sex?"

"It's difficult with the different time zones and our work schedules. He and I are getting married next summer…maybe. We still haven't settled on a date, and he won't be home for good until December," I trailed off.

"Do you want him to come home?"

"Of course."

Cami sat forward a little, "When we're faced with a life transition we either start to talk our way out of something as a means of protecting ourselves, or we run with it with little thought of the consequences or obstacles. Do you feel you're ready to be married?"

"I'm almost thirty."

"And that's not an answer to my question."

I huffed and squinted at Camille. "I am. But what if they come back?"

"The urges?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll deal with it. I want to bring Tyler on this as well. Do you think he'll be up for having a few sessions over the phone?"

"Maybe," I hedged as in maybe not. Tyler was extremely private, and though we'd be spilling our secrets to a trained professional, he would not want his secret to be let out.

"Most people are," Camille was saying, "and are usually the ones who need it the most. Your relationship with him is unique, Bonnie. Unique and complicated."

That was putting it mildly.

"Try to talk to him about it."

"I'll try," I lied for the second time.

My session ended with another homework assignment that would help channel my energy to keep me distracted from backsliding into old coping patterns. Cami wanted me to think long and hard about what I wanted out of my marriage and to write those things down.

"Sometimes we jump into relationships that are comfortable and there's nothing wrong with that. But even comfort can cause anxiety because there's a part of you that believes you could be doing more," had been her parting words as she showed me to the door.

Later that night I was seated at a quiet table for one in a semi-packed restaurant a block from my office, pouring through scripts trying to find something that had potential. Dietrich had flown to the east coast of the United States to deal with the filming permit issue himself. I knew he wasn't happy about it because he hated to fly.

I had to stop because the scripts were all the same, or appeared to be, or needed so much work it would be a miracle to scrape a decent picture out of it. Guess I should take those ten minutes of me time. Although the work day was over for many, I usually didn't stop working until close to midnight.

Laughter rang out loudly from a table across the eatery. Men, six of them dressed casually, one wore a baseball hat, raised a glass of beer to his mouth. From time to time I caught myself looking at scenes like this as if I were setting up a shot for a movie. Who would the camera love? The guy with the ruddy face who had an amazing laugh, the quiet one with the receding hairline, or the handsome one who didn't know when to shut up?

I guess I was still working. Had to cut that out.

So I dug in my purse and pulled out that letter. Its predecessor was in a shoebox that also housed my vibrator, lube, and some homemade vids shot in black and white film. Thinking about it, it's been a while since I've watched those. Perhaps I'll blow the dust off of them tonight. In any case, I covertly glanced around feeling like all eyes were on me, but not a single soul was watching.

Peeling open the flap, I pulled out the folded note.

You love it when I don't touch you even though you want me to. You like it when I stand close but not too close. You like it when I look at you and that's exactly what I was doing.

Looking. Feeling you with nothing more substantial than my gaze.

We weren't exactly alone. We were in public, hidden behind a partition in a very crowded place.

My dick jumped as I thought about taking you right here. I was in front of you in an instant, blocking your way out. Your eyes pleaded for me to be good but to also misbehave. And around you I never want to be thought of as well-mannered. Hard up, and ready to fuck at a moment's notice. I reached and touched you from chin, to neck, tentatively brushed the pad of my thumb on your nipple.

You let out a soft gasp but didn't scream at me to stop. Your nipple hardened as I circled it first clockwise and then counterclockwise. It swelled and I wondered how big it could get. I didn't leave its twin out, circled it as well until it peaked and rubbed against my palm. I felt my heartbeat all the way in my dick as I pulled down your top and strapless bra. Your beautiful breasts spilled out, jiggled, and I got an unobstructed view of your dark nipples.

Tonight I was determined to make you come just by blowing, sucking, and biting them. And that was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to make you come.

Not gonna lie. I was turned on. Horny. My clit throbbed and I squeezed my thighs together, but that wasn't enough pressure. I sneaked a hand beneath the table, glad there was a tablecloth over it to conceal what I was about to do. However, I caught someone staring right at me. An older gentleman, distinguished with gray on his temples though the rest of his hair was a rich, sable color. He pulled at the knot of his necktie and smiled a little. He was seated across from a woman. On a date and was too busy watching my every move. Scandalous. His gaze dipped down to where he figured my hand was. I deliberately bit into my bottom lip, my brows knitted together. I did touch my clit but only for a brief second, brought my middle finger up and licked the tip.

I laughed when he dropped his fork.

My waiter returned then and I finished off the last shot of lager in my glass.

"Can I get you anything else? Dessert?"

"No thanks, Stefan…Wait on second thought maybe something with chocolate in it."

"Brownie sundae?"

"Sounds perfect."

I watched as Stefan collected my empty plates and glass with deft movements. He tossed me a surreptitious glance that I held for five seconds before burying my face in the open script in front of me. He was cute. Perfectly styled hair, olive skin, deep-set grayish-green eyes. I could cast him as some brooding, tortured anti-hero right this second in a coming of age story. It would test well with audiences. And he'd be a cult star.

My cell buzzed right as my server left. I didn't reach for it. Not right away. It kept buzzing. Sighing, I answered it. "Hey."

"Hey," he responded quietly.

You could hear the unresolved tension from our earlier argument. It was a noxious fume that I was becoming way too accustomed to smelling. It was sad that someone I used to be able to tell everything to, we could barely scrounge enough words together to share our thoughts, too afraid of offending the other with our truth.

He conceded first. "I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier. I'm stressed out."

"So am I, Tyler, but I don't take it out on you."

"I know and I'm sorry."

Our words lapsed again. He apologized but it failed to make me feel better about our relationship. The fight we had was so stupid I could barely remember what it was about. I could only recall Tyler hanging up on me and not picking up when I immediately called him back. If we kept this up we wouldn't make it to December. So I tossed out my therapist's request.

"Camille, my therapist wants to have a few sessions with the two of us. Conference call style, of course."

"No."

"Tyler."

"I don't need a shrink, Bon. If you need to vent to her, that's fine. I'm good."

"We're getting married and I think it would be good for us to talk to someone before we make this commitment."

"We've never had any problems before," Tyler tried to sell his case. "It's just us living on separate continents that's making everything seem harder than it is. When I come back, we'll be fine."

And what if we're not?

I spied my three karat diamond ring and the Cartier watch my dad bought for me after graduating summa cum laude from Northwestern University. My engagement ring was beautiful, but gaudy, and with my fiancé gone I barely wore it. I broke it out when I was around certain people: Camille so she wouldn't analyze me to death about my aversion to advertising my pending wifey status, mutual friends of Tyler and me, and whenever I Skype'd with Ty or my folks. I wasn't really a fan of rings because my fingers were so small I easily lost them. I preferred necklaces and earrings, but your engagement ring…that was supposed to be worn with pride, right? It felt like a shackle.

"Babe," he was saying, "you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Will you just think about it?"

Tyler sighed heavily. "I just don't like the idea of someone prying into my business." I waited him out. He sighed again. "We'll talk some more about this later. I gotta get to bed. I just called to hear your voice. I love you."

"Love you, too."

Stefan returned with my dessert. "It's nice and warm and…cold," he flashed a smile. "I hope you enjoy it."

I picked up the spoon, burrowed it into the thick brownie and plunged it into the ice cream and took both into my mouth. "This is the best thing I've eaten all day."

I laughed again as the tip of my waiter's ears turned red. Men, they were too easy to play.

I forwent checking my mailbox once dragging myself home on a sugar high. There was a lot more foot traffic in the lobby, and I did my best not to measure anyone too intently. I made it to my floor without incident.

Spoke too soon.

A tiny and fragile frame bumped into me as I turned the corner and I automatically apologized. It was a neighbor, Josephine Santignue, a seventy-six year old transplant from New Orleans who spoke in such a dulcet tone you had to strain to hear her. But she was friendly and only offered advice if you were smart enough to ask her for it.

"Forgive me, child," Josephine drawled.

"You're all right, Miss Josephine. Where are you about to go?"

She was dressed in a fashionable black pantsuit, pearls, and her snazziest shoes.

"I have a date with destiny, chere. As do you," she dumped a covered dish in my hands I fumbled to grasp since my heavy tote was balanced on my arm. "Be a dear and take that up to Penthouse Four."

"Um…"

"Bonne nuit, poupée."

That old lady hustled to the elevator faster than I could call her back.

My fate sealed I did as instructed because I didn't want to deal with the consequences of failing to carry out an order given by Miss Josephine. First, I dumped my tote off in my apartment, fed Sphinx, and then took the elevator to the penthouse level, gripping the dish, and tapping my foot.

As expected it was quiet as I disembarked. I looked at the placard attached to the wall right in front of me that told which unit was in which direction. Penthouse Four was to the left.

I came to a stop in front of double oak doors and rang the bell. About thirty seconds later it opened, and an Asian man greeted me.

"Hi," I said, "Miss Josephine wanted me to deliver this to whoever lives here."

Onyx eyes dipped to the dish in my hands, then flicked back up to me. The door widened, "Come in."

I did so tentatively. My apartment was pretty big but this place was ginormous. Upon entry the first thing I noticed were two cream marble busts perched on evergreen pedestals flanked on each side of the long corridor.

Advancing deeper, frescos were painted on the atrium walls. It was a battle scene but I didn't know of what exactly. I was no history scholar and I didn't have time to really look, but if I had to guess maybe Alexander the Great or something from the days of the Byzantine Empire.

The foyer opened into a sprawling living room. A fully stocked bar was to the right, straight ahead was a lacquered dinner table and beyond that a massive fireplace. Above the mantel was the initial "S". To the left of the living room was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. On a raised partition was a black piano and, leaning forward so I could see better, it was a harp. Really?

"Wait here," the man who welcomed me inside said. He strolled through the living room, made a right, and disappeared.

I placed the dish on the coffee table perched between two large chocolate couches. There, my good deed was done for the day. I should make tracks but then I paused.

Music in the form of strings and wind instruments was playing. The tune was familiar, and it finally occurred to me what it was. Simon and Alisha Forever.

Who lived here? There were no personal pictures on any of the tables. The furnishings were nice, modern, and out of my price range. In fact I began to feel underdressed in my jeans, brown boots, and off the shoulder sweater. I mean, the guy who let me in had been wearing a suit. I kept my hands to myself yet I saw a peculiar statuette on an end table, and was just about to give it a closer look.

Too bad I was no longer alone.

I straightened and my jaw slackened.

It was him.

He stood running a towel through his midnight hair, stretching the material of his black T-shirt across an expansive chest. His shirt lifted a little revealing a sliver of skin. That area, that sculpted indentation where waist and hips connected and shaped that delicious V…I couldn't look away from it.

His bare feet made not a sound as he drew closer, but he seemingly hadn't taken notice of me. Not yet.

I gaped at him in profile as he turned slightly to toss the towel on one of the dining room chairs. Ever so slowly his head rotated toward me, and I couldn't explain why my heart was pounding the way it was, or why the saliva in my mouth dried up.

Bullseye, he was looking directly at me.

The impact of his gaze hadn't diminished; and in the muted lighting of his home, it was more intense than those few run-ins we had in the brightly lit elevator.

He offered no smile but there was recognition in his gaze.

He took a step down into the sunken living room.

My legs once again grew a mind of their own and I was moving backwards. "Hi," I squeaked. "I'm…I'm sorry for intruding. Miss…Josephine sent me up here to give you this," I pointed at the dish.

His unnerving eyes fell to said dish and were on me again before I could blink. "Thank you."

"I should go," I inched back another step. He took one forward.

"So soon?"

"I don't want to intrude."

"You're not. I know you live here. I've seen you."

And my face grew more familiar than it should have with your crotch, doesn't mean I need to linger around, I refrained from saying.

"You were on my mind the other day," he confessed.

He was much closer now. So close I felt his presence swallowing me. With his hair still wet, it appeared Gothic black especially against his pale skin. It didn't make him look harsh, but animated like an airbrushed photograph come to life. Whatever body wash he used, it was amazing, and I tried not to breathe it in too deeply.

I frowned, "Why was I on your mind?"

He tapped his nose.

"Right," I fidgeted and looked down.

"You've been okay?"

"Like I told you the day I plowed into you, I'm fine. I need to go."

He stretched out a hand, "I'm Damon. Damon Salvatore."

I hit pause on my retreat plan, eyed his hand, peeked at his lips. "Bonnie…Bennett."

This skin-to-skin contact was no different from when he cupped my face. His touch was gentle but firm letting me know he was here, real.

His fingers squeezed mine but didn't let go. "I've never met a Bonnie before. You're my first."

"Glad to pop your name cherry," was probably the dumbest thing to say, but it was out there in the universe now. My new acquaintance chuckled lowly. "But I guess that makes two of us because I've never met anyone named Damon."

He slid his hand out of mine, smirked. "It's been a while since I've been anyone's first."

My cheeks warmed considerably and I told my mind not picture him sweaty and balls deep in some chick. And then I was awkward. Unsure of where to look, what to do. I needed to leave. Right now. Those urges I vaguely talked to Camille about were stirring.

Tongue-tied, I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with my left hand.

"Oh, I didn't realize," Damon tipped his chin at my ring. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry I'm engaged or for something else?"

"Both."

I nodded, understanding that when I probably shouldn't while ignoring feeling oddly disappointed. I backed up another step. "Well…enjoy whatever Miss Josephine cooked for you."

"It's her world famous tetrazzini. She makes it for my birthday every year since I've lived here."

"It's your birthday?" He nodded. "Happy Birthday."

"Thank you, Bonnie," he enunciated every syllable of my name as if he were licking his fingers clean.

Looking around his house it was clear he wanted for very little, but I was curious if there was anything special he wanted to receive on the day of his birth. "Did you get everything you wanted?"

"No," he slipped his hands in his pockets, rocked on his feet.

"What do you want that you don't have?"

"My own Alisha."

My chest heaved after hearing that. Questions burned my tongue but I wasn't going to open up that Pandora's Box. The Asian guy reappeared, phone in hand.

"Mr. Salvatore, sorry to interrupt, it's Graham on the phone."

Damon acknowledged that with a simple nod but by the time he looked at me again, I was already gone.

Wedged in the corner of the elevator traveling to the safety of my floor, I twisted my engagement ring. "My own Alisha," I whispered.

A/N: If you've never seen the Misfits, probably won't get the Simon/Alisha reference, just know they were effing awesome! And will have you drowning in feels. We now know who Bonnie's fiancé is, but what is Tyler's secret? Let me know what you thought of this chapter. I want to keep this momentum going, so if you're hungry for it, it may motivate my muse to whip out another chapter expeditiously. Thanks for reading!